She didn’t know when she’d realized it. It wasn’t a conscious thought or a moment of clarity. No eureka. It had sneaked it’s way into her, slowly nested in her mind. Filling her with despair darker than she’d ever known. This was real. This world, not the other. Not Sunnydale, not the chosen one, not…not her friends. None of it. Only this. Her hand trembled as she reached out to touch the wall above the clinically white covers of the bed in which she sat. The hand didn’t pass through the wall. She let out an uneven breath, or maybe it was a sob. She’d been sure when she went to sleep that she would somehow wake up in her own bed. In her usual life. But she awoke to a nurse’s bright voice, friendly chatting while opening the Venetian blinds and letting in the harsh and bright light of reality. The nurse hadn’t expected an answer, and Buffy didn’t feel like shattering more dreams. Didn’t want to hear all the things that had ceased to be true. Tears were stuck in her throat, aching and making her nauseous. She felt so cold. Buffy sighed and got under the covers, closing her eyes with a sigh. She tried not to think, tried to brace herself from the questions. She was slowly rocked into blissful warm sleep as the thoughts lost their grip on her mind.

Buffy heard the door open with a soft pop, and almost started crying at the sound. She didn’t want to fight this fight anymore, why couldn’t it just be simple for once? She knew that the moment she opened her eyes her thoughts would come rushing back, and she’d do anything to keep that from happening. But it was too late, she was already awake.

“It’s time for your medication Buffy” The nurse said. She walked into the room and placed the tray with medications on a white bedside table and turned to Buffy. “Doctor Hill wants to talk to you after breakfast”

***


Spike would have been comfortable living a lie. He’d done that for a century. Unlived, that is. And maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he’d just been strapped to a bed for a couple of years. The restraints were still holding him down in the bed; the itching had turned to a numb ache during the night. The pale morning light fell through the Venetian blinds in stripes over his face. He’d lost the concept of time. Maybe it was early in the morning, or maybe it was noon. He hoped this wasn’t tomorrow, but it might as well be. And what did it matter anyway? Not like he had anywhere to be, anything to do, anyone who waited for him. The medicine must still be working, because the painful lump in his throat hadn’t returned, and nothing stung behind his eyelids. But there was a faint pressure, a light tickle spreading trough his skeleton. He’d felt that before. Apathy or depression making his inside itch. And he knew the tears would come.

***


Spike’s nose seemed attached to his knees. The soft white pants were moist in uneven circles on his knees. His butt had fallen asleep on the worn soft covers on the hard soothing bed. Sobs that he denied came in quick hard pants as he tried to keep them in his chest. His sodding nose was running and his world lay in crumbles on the sheets. The illusion that was all he’d ever known had lost its color and left his throat pounding with swallowed tears. Insecurity, that’s all it was. Inferiority complex twisting him until he had his own personal hell to punish himself in. And he’d been ruthless. When he sat in the doctor’s office he’d been shaking like a leaf, and he still quivered. It had all been so clear to Dr Jacob Stephens behind his desk. He’d looked at Spike with calm compassionate eyes while acid dripped down behind the blue eyes of a lunatic whose world just got pulverized. And the doctor told him to forgive himself. He’d snorted or sobbed or screamed, turning away from the warm comfort that was crushing his entire existence. He knew this was real. It was callous and cruel and too difficult, but it was real. And he had to forget all he’d ever known, forgive and forget. Make room for reality. “You have to rid your mind of that world”

***


Buffy sat in a soft green armchair, facing Doctor Hill behind a dark wooden desk. She couldn’t meet those eyes again, she knew it would make her cry. She stared at the wall above the Doctor’s head, it was filled with diplomas. Her feet were cold and still bare. She positioned them on the armchair as well, drawing her knees up to her torso and hugging her legs in a unconsciously defensive position. The office was warm and cosy, making her feel at home. The feeling confused her. It contrasted so strongly to what she felt inside, the tumult and chaos that whirled in her. She kept trying to label what she felt. Confusion. Fear. Horror. Safety. Even relief. There was no balance, no sense to it. At times she felt blank. Grey and empty and apathetic. And at other times she felt as though she would be torn apart by the uncertainty and insecurity. She wished someone could just tell her what was real, wished she wouldn’t have to decide…

A high-pitched signal made Buffy jump; Doctor Hill sent her a little smile as she picked up the receiver. “Yes? Oh, you can send them right in. Thank you.” She turned to Buffy, still smiling in a comforting manner. “I know this is overwhelming, Buffy. And that’s okay. It’s okay to be confused.”

Buffy looked down. She didn’t know what to say. No, I’m fine. Smash my life, shatter my dreams, tell me everything I’ve known is a lie, and I’ll be fine. I’m not overwhelmed. Everything I’ve known, I made up. The person I thought I was isn’t real, I made her up. All those years I struggled to survive, learn things, find a meaning…I spent those years strapped to a hospital bed. And this is okay? It’s okay to feel weird? Good. Cause I kinda do. The grip on her legs tightened, as if she could hold her feelings together by curling up. And her feet were cold.

“Look who’s here” Doctor Hill told Buffy with a growing smile, and motioned to someone behind Buffy to come in. Buffy closed her eyes for a second, trying again to pull herself together. She slowly turned her head. A gasp escaped her involuntary, tears burning behind her eyelids. Her parents stood in the doorframe, her father’s hand on her mother’s shoulder. They looked like they belonged together, trusted and loved and would never let go of each other.

A soft smile lit up Joyce’s features. “Hi sweetie”

Buffy drew a shaky breath, and managed to whisper “Mom?”

“Oh, baby, you’re really here” Her mother’s eyes glazed with tears and she looked agonizingly hopeful. She squeezed Hank’s hand and then walked up to sit on her heels in front of Buffy. Hank followed her and crouched behind her back, hands on his bent knees.

She didn’t believe it. Shouldn’t get her hopes up. This might not even be real. She shouldn’t hope…But she looked so much like her mother. And talked like her mother. Buffy had missed her so much…What if this was real? What if Joyce had never died? And her father was crouched behind Joyce’s back, hands on his bent knees, concerned yet hopeful look on his face. What if he had never left? Her mom and dad were still together…?

“Dad?” She whispered.
“Sweetheart ... we've missed you very much. Honey, can you hear me?” Hank said, voice calm. She could see how he struggled not to get his hopes up, how used he was to disappointment. She knew she must’ve caused them unbelievable pain through this…illness.
The tears that had been stuck in her aching throat now wet her cheeks and dripped heavy on her chest. She tried to hide them, stop them from coming with her hands. She’d dreamed of this for seven years. She shouldn’t be crying.

***


A strangled sob broke the lonely silence. The room was white and so empty his eyes could never rest. He kept remembering things and people he’d never see again, kept trying to understand he shouldn’t be missing them, because he’d never met or done or seen any of it. Her face kept penetrating his thoughts, kept smiling that loving smile he’d never seen on her lips. Spike wondered why he even missed it. The love. That torturous ache in his throat, the light squeeze on his silent heart every time he thought of her. It wasn’t even gone. He’d still do anything for her, even though there was no her. Strange, to be in love with a figment of your own imagination. I must be bloody self-centered.

Time passed so excruciatingly slow when all you had to occupy yourself with was thinking. It was boring. Slow and dull for as long as you could fight off the thoughts, and when you couldn’t: filled with horror. This was breaking him down, worse than any torture he’d ever been through…and, right. He’d never been through torture. Have to forget, have to free myself…illusions, that’s what it is. Have to forget…

The door opened, he couldn’t muster enough feeling to be annoyed that no one ever knocked. And after all, he was used to it. A nurse stepped in; he couldn’t tell if she was the same as last time. They all seemed too grey and dangerous. “William” she said softly, and he couldn’t help but notice the compassionin her eyes, “the dinner is served, do you feel like eating with the others?”

“Um” He looked down on his naked feet. Did he feel like meeting the rest of the loonies? What would they be like? Drooling and covered in straitjackets? But being alone with nothing but his thoughts seemed worse, so he mumbled a silent “yeah”. When did he become so timid?

***


Buffy walked down the corridor, eyes on the nurse’s back. She wondered when they’d give her shoes. Maybe she’d never get shoes. Maybe some patients were violent and would use shoes as a weapon. Maybe there was a way to kill yourself with shoes. But she could at least have socks? Or maybe you could strangle people with socks, or stuff them down the throat and suffocate. Maybe I should just eat on my room. Her heart jumped slightly as she caught sight of a tall, dumb-looking man slowly walking in a rocking kind of way between two nurses. She took a deep breath and tried to calm. The nurse turned around a corner, and she got full view of the corridor. A man stood frozen in a stare a few feet in front of her. The world around her lost its colors, and all she saw was him. He wore the same loose white clothes she did. Dark hair in playful curls, blue eyes wide and shocked like her own must be. Even without the bleached hair and annoying smirk, he was still the same. “Spike” She whispered inside a gasp.

He forgot about forgetting. She was here. She was real. And tears trailed down his cheeks without grace or dignity or shame, and he saw those tears glistening on her cheeks too. His eyes never left hers, and suddenly her arms were around him, his face in her hair and her breath on his neck. The world twisted and liquefied and slipped around them, but she was here. He didn’t care what shape the world took, because she was here, and his face was in her hair and her breath on his neck and she sobbed and he sobbed and they were together. Together.





You must login (register) to review.